Absent Light (7 page)

“And I'll have two of those iced buns and a doughnut,” she said. “You can stay here, if you want,” she said to Martin mildly, as she offered a crisp ten pound note to the shop assistant.

“You must be joking. I'm coming with you. He might turn funny and demand money with menaces.”

But he didn't. He looked astonished and grateful.

As they walked hurriedly away, Martin said in bewildered tones, “I've never been with anyone who's done that before.”

“No big deal,” she said dismissively. “Had I given him cash, he might have spent it on drugs.”

“That's not really what I meant,” Martin said, slowing down. “You really feel, don't you?”

“Feel what?”

“Other people's pain.”

She gave a puzzled shrug. “Just being a decent human being, that's all.”

Martin stopped and turned towards her. He put both hands on her shoulders. “Are you afraid to be happy, Helen?”

She smiled awkwardly.

“Are you?” His eyes were so darkly penetrating they wiped the smile from her face.

“No,” she whispered, feeling the denial catch in her throat.

“Is this about Adam?”

“No,” she said, fiercely this time. It's about me, she thought.

“And
are
you happy?”

She sighed, touched his face with her fingers, her heart clenching with sadness because she knew she couldn't tell him the truth. She knew it wasn't his fault, but hers.

Even though she decided she'd nothing to wear, Helen eventually settled for a claret-coloured dress with long, slinky sleeves, and a flattering neckline. She dug out a pair of black stilettos – the heels could fell a male at thirty paces – and strapped them on with the same precision as if she were carrying an undercover weapon. With a swish of muted grey eye shadow over the lids, red on her lips, the vampish look was complete. Then it was on with her coat and off into the freezing night air. She'd arranged for a taxi. It took less than ten minutes door to door.

Jen's annexe echoed with music, loud but not deafening, a constant burble of voices, odd guffaws of laughter, the chinking of glass. The open-plan living room, enveloped in a non-politically correct nicotine haze, was awash with people, bright-eyed, their faces sheened with warmth, alcohol and lust. Helen knew most of them by sight if not by name.

The car-dealer fraternity gathered in two tightly delineated groups: Jaguar versus BMW. Then there were the petrol-heads and the type of thrusting young-bloods who regularly appeared, along with the great and the good, on the back page of the Birmingham Post for the grip and grin shots, as Helen termed them.

Helen slipped off her coat and chucked it on the pile on Jen's bed. As she helped herself to some white wine, she heard her name being shouted. She turned and recognised one of Jen's work colleagues, a guy called Mark Horton. Holding court on the other side of the room, he had the typical car salesman's stance: feet wide apart, chest sticking out, blokeish grin. He was signalling frantically for her to come and join him. She nodded and waved, weaving her way slowly through various groups of people, stopping every so often to say hello, dipping in and out of conversations.

“Smashing dress,” Jen commented, a little tipsily, Helen thought.

“You look pretty good yourself,” Helen said. Jen's enviably curvaceous form was squeezed into an electric-blue creation with a plunging neckline, her blonde curls, newly unleashed, cascaded over her shoulders. She was standing next to a man Helen didn't recognise.

“James Saunders,” Jen said, doing the introductions. Although he wasn't particularly short, in her heels Helen towered over him. With his small eyes and heavy-framed spectacles, he looked all head and no body. She guessed he was an academic.

“Hi,” he said.

Helen murmured the usual pleasantries.

“Helen's a photographer,” Jen explained. “Portraits.”

James cracked a smile.

“She works for Ray Seatt,” Jen laboured the point.

The smile widened. “Oh, right,” he said in a knowledgeable fashion.

“You know him?” Helen asked.

The smile faded. Ridges appeared across his brow. “Don't think so.”

There was a stilted silence. Jen flashed a weak smile in Helen's direction and took the opportunity to disappear to
see to the food
.

“Nice party,” James said, smiling again.

Helen muttered a meaningless reply, secretly cursing Jen for dumping him on her. “So what do you do, James?” It was a pretty lacklustre opening but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

“I'm a court welfare officer,” he said firmly, proud of it.

“Here?” Helen said.

“In Corporation Street. My work's mainly with children.”

“So you're a sort of social worker,” Helen said.

“A mediator. Often between warring spouses,” he laughed lightly. “I work for CAFCASS.”

She felt the blood leach from her cheeks. She could have gone on the attack about the cases that slipped through their bureaucratic fingers, about focusing on the detail and missing the obvious. She could have asked if he remembered a girl called Rose Buchanan. Instead she forced a smile. “Must be challenging,” she mumbled, trying to conceal her dismay. She took a quick snatch at her drink.

“Extremely rewarding. The work's varied, and you get to meet some interesting people,” James said, warming to his theme.

“I can imagine.” She heard her own voice sounding artificially bright as she glanced over his shoulder.

“I like to think we enjoy a fair degree of success,” he twitched a smile.

“Mmmm.” Nausea wended a speedy path to her throat. “Well, it's nice talking to you, James, but I think Jen could do with some help.”

She shut herself in the bathroom, washed her hands, went to the loo, washed her hands again. Perhaps she shouldn't have come, she thought, looking in the mirror at her strained reflection. It was too soon after her stay in hospital. She was still fragile. Somehow she couldn't shake off the feeling that the Fates, not content with being thwarted, were conspiring against her. By the time she'd recovered and joined Mark, he was in full spate.

“I mean, can you believe it?” Mark said, his voice rasping from a pack-a-day habit, “this bloke actually wanted to name his son after his motor.”

“And what was that?” a guy with a pockmarked complexion chipped in.

“Maverick,” Mark grinned.

“Good job he didn't drive a Hyundai,” Helen said.

The assembled gang roared with laughter, fuelled more by booze, she suspected, than her sparkling wit.

“How you doing?” Mark said, slipping his arm around her waist and giving her a playful squeeze. He was already showing signs of a distinct beer-gut, which she took pleasure in pointing out to him.

“Give a man a break,” he grinned. He lowered his voice. “Jen muttered something about you being in some bother.”

Bit of an understatement, Helen thought. She smiled sweetly.

“So it's true then. Someone tried to drown you.”

“I was mugged.”

Mark raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“During the attack, I fell into the canal,” she explained.

“Fell? Jen said you were pushed.”

Jen would, Helen thought. “You know Jen,” she laughed softly, “she's a sucker for death and destruction.”

“So what do you reckon happened?”

Helen gave a wide-eyed
no idea
shrug. “Wrong place, wrong time,” she said, stealing her father's phrase.

“You're all right then?”

“No harm done,” she smiled, disentangling herself from further conversation. She fluttered from group to group, wandering in and out of discussions on movies, the state of the economy, the vague and unconfirmed rumours of closures at yet another of the local factories, horse racing, the terrorist threat. Around ten o'clock, she balanced a plate of Chicken Gloop and rice in one hand, and a glass and fork in the other. She ate standing up while talking to a couple, whose names escaped her, about the perils of starting up your own business. Someone let George out. Exploiting every cute expression in his repertoire, he was fed a vast array of leftovers, the evidence clear for all to see as he promptly threw up on Jen's Chinese rug. While several women squealed and headed off, Helen alerted Jen and went in search of a mop and bucket.

Clearing up dog's vomit didn't phase her, though she could have done without the small gathering of onlookers as she scrubbed the carpet, especially the men who made helpful suggestions from fifty paces. Humans were endlessly fascinated by the grim and gruesome, she thought. It was that same fascination that drove motorists to slow down near fatal road accidents, to collect around a crime scene, to read with relish every sordid detail of a sexual killing over their breakfast toast and marmalade.

She'd just finished clearing up, and helped herself to another drink, when a familiar voice spoke behind her.

“You look stunning.”

She turned. It was Martin. She'd spotted him earlier in the evening and done her best to avoid him. He was wearing a tailored jacket that clung to his lean physique. He looked darkly handsome, sleek, like a well-groomed cat.

“Thanks,” she said, anxiously looking around for the attractive-looking redhead who'd accompanied him.

“Sarah's in the bathroom,” Martin said with an amused smile. Helen smiled back and tried to conceal her relief. “How's things?” he asked.

“Great,” she nodded, wincing at the heartiness in her voice. “And you?”

“Good. Very good,” he added with emphasis.

“I'm pleased,” she said, genuinely happy for him.

“Thought I wouldn't be,” he said steadily, mouth close to hers, “but I am.”

“Look, Martin, I wanted to say…”

He put a finger to her lips. “Don't say anything, Helen. Not now.”

Not now? Had he heard about the mugging, too? What did he mean, she thought, nerves jangling?

“This looks pally,” a piercing voice came from nowhere, the kind of voice, Helen thought, that could strip paint. “Aren't you going to introduce us?” The woman, who she took to be Sarah, was tugging at Martin's hand like a child trying to get its mother's attention. Small and pretty and pale, she wore a black strapless taffeta dress exposing creamy-white arms. Helen wondered if Martin had chosen her because she was the physical opposite of herself. Funny, she thought, she'd found Martin attractive precisely because he was so similar in looks to Adam. Same dancing eyes. Same enslaving smile.

The introductions were made. Helen smiled and murmured that it was nice to meet her. Sarah clung on to him like a limpet, Helen noticed. She wondered whether Martin found it attractive or whether, eventually, it would drive him away.

“Heard so much about you.” Sarah's blue eyes were pure ice.

“All good, of course,” Martin hurriedly spoke up. Helen offered another smile and felt her cheeks flush. Oh God, this was really difficult.

“I hear you're a photographer.” The haze of blue didn't waver. Helen grunted a yes. “Maybe you could take my picture some time.”

You have to be kidding, Helen thought, the fixed smile hurting her face. “How much do you charge?”

“Seventy-five pounds for a sitting, prints are extra.”

Sarah gave Martin an appealing look. “I don't know whether that's expensive or not.”

“Well, I…” he mumbled.

“I think you'll find it competitive,” Helen said evenly. “So how did you two meet?” she said, deciding to be proactive.

“Sarah joined our P.R. wing,” Martin explained.

“Handy,” Helen said, inwardly cursing for not thinking of something smarter to say.

“It means we understand each other's work,” Sarah said. “We often discuss campaigns at home. Some of our best ideas have originated over a bottle of wine,” she said with a silvery laugh.

“Right,” Helen said, draining her glass. Sarah followed suit. Helen considered whether she was copying her.

“Could you get me a refill, darling?” Sarah held out her glass to Martin.

Martin glanced from Sarah to Helen, his expression one of wincing apology. “And you, Helen?” he added, looking uncertain.

“Thanks,” she smiled, handing him her empty glass.

“Won't be a moment,” he said, pushing his way through the scrum of people.

Sarah possessively watched his retreating form and turned back to Helen. It was evident from the look in her eye that she wanted to make plain the ground-rules. “You're quite a tough act to follow.”

Helen gave an embarrassed shrug.

“I think poor Martin thought you were
the
one.”

Don't make me feel any worse than I already do, Helen thought.

“He was quite cut up until I came along,” Sarah continued.

“I never meant…”

“I'd hate to see him made a fool of again.” Sarah was smiling sweetly but her eyes gleamed with malice. This was the stay-away speech, Helen thought. What a silly girl. More than anything Helen wanted Martin to be happy.

“Look, Sarah, you really have nothing to worry…”

“You think I'm interested in your opinion?” Sarah cut in haughtily.

“Drinks, girls,” Martin said, clearly pleased to find that neither woman had yet attacked the other.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Sarah said, tipping up on her toes to give him a kiss and reassert ownership. Crisis over, Helen thought. At heart, Sarah was just a jealous cow. A bit of her worried about what Martin had let himself in for.

“Martin said you used to work as a crime scene photographer for the police.”

Helen glanced from Sarah to Martin. He looked as startled as she felt.

“Not as simple as that. I…”

“Weren't you involved in that case that hit the papers?”

Martin paled. In a space of seconds, Helen felt herself turn from a reasonable person into an
I want to get my hands around your throat person
.